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Short Story Portfolio

Welcome to the

Short Story Portfolio

Meghan

I have spent some time out of my world and in a dream. I did so only once. That week, had I not permitted myself a little luxury, I would not have met Meghan. Very nearly exhausted from my extensive studies of some very unappetising subjects, I set out to escape for a while and return fixed. Only for a little while, I told the part of myself that toiled and grew anxious when work was left undone. Only for a little while, and I’ll return home. I was reluctant. It seemed so unprofessional and unnecessary. Young and naïve, I thought all there was in the world was to be proper. But I knew in my heart that a little trip to a smaller town was calling me.

It was so long ago. I would say I don’t quite remember it all, but I do. I remember it all.

On Monday I sought to spoil myself with a new dress or two. I hadn’t had one made for years, and it was showing. I was beginning to feel ashamed of my naked ankles and tattered hems, a result of which my protesting that owning good dresses was not necessary in life had partly manifested. With what pathetic sum I could make with father’s and my own pay, I stepped into a tailor-shop where a mother and her daughter lived and worked. The mother had me measured, and sent me with the latter to assist me in selecting the material.

I looked through their collection. I could feel the girl’s eyes studying me, watching my fingers feel and my eyes observe. She seemed to want to recognise every colour and fabric I lingered over. At last, I looked up to tell her I desired the one which I was currently holding

“Don’t pick that one,” she said suddenly, surprising me, as she had not yet spoken before.

I drew my hand back, ready to ask why. She got there first.

“You have hazel eyes,” explained she. “You would do well to have this one.”

She presented me with a different cloth. It was of an odd milky greenish colour. At first, I found it revolting. The feeling was not one I was accustomed to, yet it felt well on my skin. I looked up at her more closely. She had a round face and plain features, and her dark hair was neatly braided and pinned up tightly. It was pulling on her skin and paining her, I think, stretching her face like a tablecloth. Her brown eyes shone with earnesty, and seeing them, I nodded and something inside me broke. I chose the cloth. Her lips broke into a full smile, beautiful despite its apparent lack of elegance.

“Thank you-” I started, though I did not know her name.

“Call me Meghan,” she told me. She had a voice of hickory wood.

“Thank you, Meghan.”

We came back to Meghan’s mother, who looked over my selection with scorn. She was a stern woman who had eyebrows permanently furrowed. I could tell she did not like the material her daughter had so eagerly recommended, and yet she waited while I was presented with sketches of different styles to pick from. I remember glancing at Meghan, who gave me a brief smile. I now think that the sketches seemed quite ordinary, and unsatisfyingly so. But I did not think so at the time. I picked one at random, and the mother offered to sew it for me with a brown cloth. I let her, but having some money left, I was prompted to go to Meghan in secret later that day and told her to sew me a green dress. She accepted me with pleasure.

“What style would you like?” she asked.

“Whatever your taste,” I replied, and she beamed at me.

She turned to leave, but then turned back.

“What is your name?”

“Destiny,” answered I, watching her eyes twinkle.

On Tuesday, I saw Meghan in town, clasping a battered leather book. I hadn’t noticed before, but I did now, that she purposely tugged strands of hair out of her braids. Her brown skirt was cut short to the shin, and moved about her whenever she walked. Her shoulders were wide and drawn back. I could see her stockings, rolled down her legs, which strode widely, clad in boots of worn leather. She was ugly by doing so, and drew looks from everyone. But perhaps she wasn’t so bad. I looked down to my own poor dress, which I had overgrown. Perhaps I did not feel quite ashamed of it now. Then I approached her.

“Why, hello, Destiny!” cried Meghan. “How’s your morning?”

“Fine, thank you,” I said.

She kept on walking. I had to take two steps for every one that she took. I didn’t know where she was going, but I was intent on following.

“Why have I not seen you before?” inquired Meghan.

“I live in a city far from here,” I told her. “I am only visiting.”

“I see,” she said, though I could tell she was disappointed. “When will you leave?”

“I shall leave on Friday.”

Having no more to say, we parted ways and I went to buy new ink.

On Wednesday afternoon, I went back to the tailor-shop to retrieve my dresses. The mother was curt and businesslike, and we finished our affairs efficiently. Hearing my voice in the parlour, Meghan trampled down the stairs, disrupted an array of threaded spools, and without warning, grabbed my wrist and led me to another room. I let out a laugh, knowing very well that I had never lost my stately manner in my life. I knew not what was the matter with me.

It was there that I saw the dress. The very same cloth Meghan had recommended had been transmogrified into her idea of style. It had a flared, triangular skirt about the same length as Megan’s floppy, odd one. I studied the dress. Had the events of Monday and Tuesday not happened, I would think it rather disturbing. But the aforementioned events did, in fact, happen, and I found that I did rather like it, and I told Meghan so.

“You do? I- Thank you, Destiny. Really,” said Meghan enthusiastically. “It means a lot.”

“Where did you learn to make it so?” I questioned, curious who had taught her such interesting ideas.

“Nowhere,” Meghan replied. “I thought it up myself.”

I looked up at her. Her cheeks were flushed, but I knew she wore nothing of the powdery sort on her face. It would kill her, I thought. She was leaning with her back against a desk in a most disrespectful manner, yet when it was her I thought she looked like some sort of royal, majestically poised against the stairway railing. I went slowly to the table and let my finger run against the spine of the leather book which I had seen her hold the day before.

I reached for the cover to open it. “What did you put in here?”

“Nothing. Just a few sketches,” Meghan dismissed.

But I did open the book, reader. I did. It was filled with the most marvellous things I had ever seen. Drawings of the most - dare I say - bizarre clothing - almost as if they had come from the Moon. Others would call it scandalous, but I saw only daring styles, and each sketch was more captivating than the last.

“Did you make these?” I asked.

“Yes,” Meghan said.

I was baffled.

“Can’t you take it all somewhere? To a big city, where people will see you and wear what you make?”

Meghan shrugged her shoulders. I didn’t think to call her rude and careless.

“Don’t you want to?” I pressed.

She took a moment and nodded slowly. “But Mother won’t let me. And besides, I’m fine where I am.”

A sadness which I had not felt before was suppressed in my chest as I moved back to the dress. I looked over it again, and felt the details which Meghan’s hands had so carefully laid. It felt wasted.

“Won’t it make my shoulders wider?” I questioned.

Meghan shrugged again. “Yes. I like it, though.”

There was another moment.

“What do you want to do, then, with your life?” I said.

“Stay here. Work with Mother,” replied Meghan.

“What do you want to do?” I repeated.

Meghan took a breath. “When I was younger, I’d wished to move away. Get to some kind of big city by the ocean and make things that shocked people, and yet, they’d love me. I’d find somebody I was truly fond of, and she would wear my clothes and we’d read poems together every day. Wouldn’t that be wonderful?”

“Yeah. It would.”

On Thursday, I awakened with ropes of dread binding my body to the sanctuary of my bed. I knew that I was returning home tomorrow morning, and I found that I was not eager for it at all. My mind did not desire the endless, rigorous testing that it used to, nor did my hands hunger for the feeling of a heavy pen between my stained fingers. My escape had gone by precisely as planned, and I had acquired everything I initially desired, but now, as I lay with the early Thursday sunlight upon my face, I felt that it was not nearly enough. I was approaching the end of my story, and yet nothing had yet happened. What a dreary story it must be, I thought. Full of nothing but nonsense.

For the first time, I wondered truly of my purpose. I had never before questioned if my actions really did lead to my dreams. I thought they did. I thought if one worked hard enough, they would be content somehow. And still I felt fear. I understood Meghan now. It was the fear to leave what I had, to abandon who I was, or who I had wanted to be. Then I knew that I was worse off than Meghan. She knew her dream, and only had fear of finding it. I did not know.

I sought to make the best of things while I still could, for a kind of madness had seized me. I dressed with the best I could manage, not caring whether others would be appreciative of it. I let my hair down and wore Meghan’s dress to the tailor-shop, where I threw pebbles at her window. She opened it with a bang.

“Destiny! What brings you here so early?” she shouted at me.

“Come with me,” I shouted back. “Let us have a drink.”

She slammed shut the window. I heard steps trampling down before the door flung open and Meghan stepped out in all her splendour. She scrambled to me, and we ambled to town together.

It was the shortest day of my life. We had our drink, indeed, and passed down the road to shops where we could do nothing but gawk at the fabulous items which we could not have. We had a picnic lunch. We bought chocolate at a shop and ate it. We told each other stories and laughed as we skipped through the park, and when she ran at me, I shrieked and ran away. We chased each other down in our strange little dresses until we fell and could only lie in silence on the grass. Those who stared were blatantly ignored, and soon enough afternoon fell.

“You’ll be gone tomorrow, won’t you?” Meghan whispered to me as she braided my hair.

“Yes.”

There was silence. I tried to move my head, but Meghan snapped at me, ordering me to sit still or she’d cut my hair off. My mind raced, though my body remained tranquil. Again was I seized with a spontaneous urge to do something thoughtless.

“Come with me,” I suddenly offered.

Meghan said nothing.

“Run away. Come to my city. You-you could live with me, and we do live quite near the ocean, you know, and I’ll wear your clothes, I promise. You could sew whatever you wanted. We’ll read each other poems every day,” I said.

Meghan said nothing still. She tied my hair together.

“I can’t,” she replied simply at last.

Irritated, I prodded her. “Whyever not?”

“Because,” insisted Meghan. “I just can’t. I can’t just drop everything and go. Mother wants me to stay here. I want to stay here.”

“Do you really?” I asked sceptically.

She didn’t answer. Instead, she just continued. “I’m really sorry, Destiny. I really am. But I just don’t think I could belong anywhere but here.”

I could find nothing to say to her, for I knew I would not follow my dreams either. It would be hypocritical, and I was ashamed of it.

Meghan lingered her bright-eyed gaze to the ever-darkening sky.

“Mother will be upset, should I return late,” said she quietly, as if the silence was delicate porcelain.

We slowly picked ourselves up from the ground and walked in a trance back to the shop. I tried to notice everything about her so I could remember that she had eyes the colour of rich soil with ebony pupils, that she had hair that naturally disturbed itself into flying about, that she had a smile which showed all her heart to the world. I wanted to keep everything. So I listened to her boots make music on the roads and breathed the twilight air on my skin.

Until the moment that we approached the general vicinity of the tailor-shop, there had been complete silence. Neither of us had dared to break it. I suppose I was feeling rebellious then. Never shall I know what prompted me to say what I did.

“You’ll be sorry.”

Meghan halted and turned to me, her eyebrows raised.

“You’ll be sorry one day, Meghan. You’ll see. You’ll be sorry you refused me and you’ll be sorry you refused your dreams,” I told her, although it felt like I wasn’t talking to her at all. “You’ll regret that you didn’t know what you wanted before.”

Meghan looked at me with her eyes wide. “I am sorry.” She paused. “I’m sorry that you’re the most stupid, inconsiderate girl I have ever met! I hope you know what I mean. I won’t drop everything and run. In fact, I don’t think we ever should have met.”

I followed her as she strode to the door of the shop. She put her hand on the doorknob and pierced me with her eyes once again before turning it. Knowing her, I thought she would say something clever. She didn’t. She only yanked the door open, stepped inside, and shut it as if she meant to wake the whole town with the sheer impact.

Never did I quite place what really did happen between Meghan and her mother that night.

All I know is that early the next morning, I awoke and dressed in a dullish attire and breakfasted hurriedly. To me, nothing had colour nor taste. I packed and paid no heed to where I put what. Just before noon, my coach came and I did board it with a head empty as my soul. I closed my eyes and waited for it to go, and a feeling came over me. I opened my eyes and turned to the window, and for a brief moment I saw her. A young woman, her hair oddly neat and tidy, beautifully pale-skinned in a pretty long-sleeved full-length brown dress, running down the steps toward me. I didn’t recognise her, but I knew it was Meghan, her very being suffering and withering.

I began to move away, but Meghan’s eyes did catch me for a miniscule length of time. It was as if she was pleading me to stop and send a proper goodbye, or perhaps as if she was watching herself go, or perhaps as if she had something to say, but could neither find the words, nor the voice, to say it. As if she was begging for help. Those eyes haunted me for the rest of my life, and I tried to recall them along with the taste of chocolate and the feel of flaxen cloth often. It was the last time I ever did see her before I went back down to my own abyss and life proceeded just how it did before.

And I was right, reader. I was, indeed, sorry.

The Stars See All

The world is burning. It dresses in skirts of flame, crowned with smoke. Powdered with ash. It crumbles and everywhere the sea boils alive, salty and shifting as if to say, “I told you so.” Cities of glass and chrome become hundreds of thousands of millions of shards in a flamboyant fall of splendour. Hillsides once spread with the butter of young grass and jewelled with the spring beauty of blossoms disappear, replaced by swollen blacks and scorching embers.

You don’t know how long you’ve run. Your shoes must have peeled off and turned to crisp shreds long ago. Your feet are far too burnt, far too frozen, far too big, far too small, and you are strong and you are weak. The last ship left three days ago. There is no escape, not when hell seeps into the world you once knew before your very eyes. The earth is heavy with the silence of countless songbirds, whose gavotte had sung itself out until it was poisoned by angry fumes, sweet soprano voices withering until springs were a silent and solemn funeral. And yet the world grows nearly deafening with a billion footfalls per second, the agonising protests of the ground below. Somewhere, a child cries, his sobs reverberating through the growing wreckage. A severed slab of wood protrudes out, and you’re suddenly too tired to hurdle it. You bend over, your hands on your knees, taking in a breath only to find the air infiltrated with fire, scalding your throat and lungs.

Where is the sea from here, you wonder. Where are the shores of soft, ruffled sand tumbling down to meet the white foam that lines the waves like lace on a deep sapphire gown? Where are the children sculpting kingdoms out of sand? Where are the harbours decked with boats and ships like books on shelves, glazed in ocean spray in the mornings and bathed in moonlight at night? And suddenly a fierce longing seizes you, and you wish for the water at your heels, laughter in your throat, shells clutched in your fingers. What does the ocean feel like? It’s so hard to remember those afternoons when you felt that life would never end, when here you are now, and the ground is all rock and the only smell in the air is that of ruin, and the end is near. It’s hard to remember the coolness of the sea when it seems so far away, and fire rages around you and inside you.

There is no point in running, for where do you run when there’s nowhere left to run to? You try to kneel down, and suddenly the pain and the soreness and the weariness crashes upon you and you hit the ground. It seems to hiss beneath you, and it smells of nothing but dust and the charred remnants of what lay there before flame had devoured it. Was this once a meadow? Perhaps not long ago, children not unlike yourself once ran up and down, playing tag or pushing each other or picking flowers or simply picnicking. Perhaps you’d taken for granted the sight of apple green flowing over hills when the world was still alive and merry. What would you give to see now the faces of daisies upon the mountainside, to feel the glistening dewdrops soak into your socks? The springs have passed like untasted raindrops in April. How many moments have you missed? How far away is home? Surely home is gone, fallen away, petal by petal in the roaring wind. Brief flashes before your half-closed eyes; walks beneath serpentine treetops filtering amber sunshine into shafts, family by your side, and yet when they looked at you, you looked away, your eyes plunged in darkness, your mind already clouded. Disappointment. Heartbreak. Grief.

The already sweltering heat ever so slightly increases. The sky rains hot ashes and embers, some prickling onto your skin. Your sweat mingles with the crumbs of what once was. The dirt is dusty, dry. Where is your mother? Your father? Your sister? Probably gone. Left you behind because you didn’t deserve them anymore. Your eyes sting even more thinking of the wasted time, the wasted love, the wasted beauty, the wasted life… but no tears come to your eyes, for you have none. The taste of water is forgotten, your throat, your lungs, your mouth parched dry and hollow. Food is a luxury long lost, and now you cannot feel the hunger, though you know it is there. But then once in a while you thought of soups your mother made, pies and cookies you should have helped bake with your family. Flowers your grandmother loved so dearly. Games your cousins wanted you to play. They say you condemned them, forgot who you were, where you came from, who loved you more than anything else in this falling world. But now you realise that you have condemned yourself, for it is too late, too late to go back.

Your blood, slow-flowing and sluggish from dehydration, pounds like loosened bass drums in your ears. Your mind is airy and yet heavy beyond anything you have ever known, numb and senseless. Your feet are raw, your skin burned and cut and bruised. The child who was crying is gone, dead or tired or sleeping or silenced, you do not know. Slowly, you open your eyes, planting the palms of your hands into the trembling earth and struggling up, heaving the weight of your weak body, trudging past wreckage and corpses, your legs protesting, your feet crying with pain. A hot gust of wind whistles past, bringing the sound of a rooftop crashing down far away. Sometimes, you see somebody you think is dead, but they are alive, gasping for breath or muttering, or sometimes you think somebody is looking at you, but then you see they are dead, their eyes wide open and staring. Some have their hands laid at their heart, looking no different than a restful sleeper.

You see their faces even as you collapse beneath a structure of some sort, huddling against yourself though the atmosphere has warmed enough to burn like fire. The air is so sickening that it seems as though each breath hastens your departure, though to not breathe would be foolish. You think of the mistakes you made. The list is endless. They cost you your life. You thought you were happy, but now you think that perhaps, perhaps you had been wrong. The blood on your hands, the guilt in your soul, eats you from the inside out, clawing away, but you have no way to banish it, nothing to do except wait for it to reduce you to ribbons crumpled on the ground. There is no one to speak to, no one to lean on. You are alone, completely alone, for who would want to be with you, here, at the end of all time?

The earth sputters, as if trying one last time to rise out of the smoke. The wind halts. For the first time since it all began, there is complete silence. Full silence. Silence that is almost deafening. Silence that drips from the air, thick and guilty. Silence that crushes the only sliver of flame left inside you, and you only wonder what is left of the sky. The sky, the sky… vast and blue, bright and loving… plastered with clouds of smoke, hidden behind curtains of earthly disaster. If it is night or day, you do not know, but somewhere up there, the sun or the moon watches you. The stars see all, perhaps the beginning, and now the end, and all ends that come after the end. Are they still there? Can they still see you, in this last moment of despair? Can they feel that aching regret inside of you now, knowing that you would do anything to hear the crumbling of waves upon the seashore, or see a jade spring upon your homelands, or have a chance to finally say “I love you” to those who deserved it most? But there is nowhere left to go, no time left to spend. For the world is burning. It dresses in skirts of flame…

The Day Before

Evening fell, and the dusk shimmered about the little world in streamers of orange, pink, violet and blue. The streetlamps stayed dull and lifeless, for the days were shortening and they had not yet grown accustomed to having to be woken up so early. Along the quiet road Sprint’s steps fell softly as he rounded the corner under the light of a slivered moon. Sprint breathed in deeply, inhaling the scent of calm just as the crickets began fiddling away. Story sat on the wall with her legs swinging, patiently waiting for him. He leaned back beside her. It was a pleasant wall, smooth on one side and chipped on the other, because the painters had never finished.

“Hello,” Sprint said into the darkening night.

“Good evening, Sprint,” replied Story. She traced a cut on the palm of her right hand with a finger.

They both turned to the corner Sprint had just come from as Seth strode over, arms swinging, legs wide. He gave them each a nod. With him, walking slowly, was Still.

“Sprint,” greeted Seth gruffly. “Story!” Sprint gave the newcomers a smile. “Hi, Seth. Hi, Still.”

Still didn’t say anything, only propping himself up to sit on the wall beside Story, who stared at trees and houses and chimneys in the distance and listened for owls while Still studied his hands like he did every day. Seth and Sprint just leaned against the wall, discussing the show they liked that aired on Tuesday nights. It was all like the night before, and the night before that, except for Tuesdays, because Sprint would be watching television over at Seth’s. For now, they were waiting for Sly, because they couldn’t start without him.

Soon Sprint and Seth stopped talking so that Story could describe the fading sky, because she liked to and she did it every sunset, using any words that pleased her.

“The Sun is standing at the exit, wondering if the Moon would miss him if he should leave,” Story told them softly, watching as the last day’s gleam gave in to the lateness of the hour. “And she does miss him, every night, as he dissolves like sugar in tea. But when Sly comes the Stars will arrive to keep her company.”

And the stars did arrive when Sly rode to them on his bike. The moon glowed brighter as every star blinked into existence, illuminating Sly’s blonde hair and Story’s smile when she saw him. He waved to Seth and said hi to Sprint and punched Story’s fist and completely and utterly ignored Still, all while setting his bike against the wall. Then the walk began.

One by one, the lamps flickered on, “yawning”, as Story would like to say, and they proceeded down the street in a huddle, past the flower shop, now closed and empty. Still side-stepped a puddle while the others jumped over it. It was a low spot on the road and water always collected there. Though Seth and Sprint chatted quite merrily and Sly talked non-stop as Story laughed, it seemed as though only they were full of joy and spirit, and the rest of the world was silent and dark. Sprint stopped and pointed at a few wispy grey strands stretched from a nearby streetlamp.

“Look, a spider,” he whispered, as if it would crawl away if they spoke too loud. “Look how little it is.”

Still jumped a little and stepped back. Story waved at the spider.

“His name is Sneak,” she said matter-of-factly.

“How do you know that?” Sly asked her.

Story shrugged. Behind them, there was a sudden footfall.

“Boo!” screamed a voice.

Then, an exclamation from Still, a yell from Story, and a jump from everyone but Sly, who whirled around and smacked the boy upside the head. He raised his arms and grinned mischievously.

“Oh, hello, Skip,” said Seth.

Story grumbled. “We really ought to call you Stupid.”

“Or Sinister,” suggested Sprint.

“Guys, the kids from the other side of the wall are after me,” Skip told them.

The six of them had always been rivals of the kids who lived on the other side of the wall, mostly starting from the day the painters had come and painted their side first. But generally, they had never been nice to Sprint or his friends, and Story, who hated them most, often called them “nasty, wicked, conceited, hateful, self-absorbed, inflated little lumps.”

“Oh no,” breathed Sprint.

“What did you do?” Seth asked Skip, sounding like was amused merely by the thought of the kids from the other side struggling to find Skip.

“I painted ‘All Hail King Skip’ in big red letters all over their side of the wall,’ declared Skip triumphantly. “Underneath that, I wrote, ‘And long live Lord Sly, Sir Seth, Miss Story, Knight Sprint and good old Mr. Still.’ Skip clapped Still hard on the back, and Still gave him a funny look, rolling his eyes.

“Did you do it with the real stuff? You know, the stuff that’s permanent?” demanded Sly impatiently.

Skip cackled. “Yes!”

They burst out laughing and high-fived each other.

“That’s not all,” continued Skip, with his cheeks stuffed full of delicious laughter.

“I bet you insulted them a bunch, too, didn’t you?” Seth guessed, his mouth turning up in the corner.

Skip nodded happily. Sprint shook his head disapprovingly, but he did think it was funny, too, even if the smoothly painted side of the wall had now been ruined.

“Well, I guess we should have fun while we still can,” Sprint remarked as they climbed and ducked under a worn barbed wire fence.

But Skip stayed behind, and he waved.

“I’m gonna go home now,” he told them.

“Bye, Skip,” they all said, and he disappeared.

They were facing a hill, and they began to climb it as the crickets sang louder and the night grew bluer and blacker. They could barely see, and once in a while one of them fell. The hill was covered in grass, which was damp from the coolness in the air, and spotted with a few trees here and there. At one point, they stopped at one of these trees. It wasn’t too tall, but had no low branches, the lowest being at a height which only Seth could reach, if he raised his arm very high, stood on his toes, and spread his fingertips. A filthy rope dangled from a small, square platform above, too small to even support Story. The five of them stood staring wide-eyed up at the platform.

“Who’s going to go get the ball today?” Sprint asked mostly to himself.

They all immediately chorused, “Not me!

But, as always, Story turned to Still and barked, “Go get it, Still! And make sure to bring it back this time!”

Still grumbled to himself, but reached for the rope. The others continued climbing the hill. They got to the top minutes later and looked out. Though tucked away where nobody could see and shaded by trees, the hill looked over the neighbourhood. Every night, something looked just a bit different, and every night they stared at the view, calling it things like “splendid” and “marvellous”.

And it truly was. Streets lined with sidewalks cut through houses set with lights that twinkled at them like jewels. They were wonderfully multicoloured, sparkling in hues of reds and yellows and cream whites. In the distance the land rolled out to the sea beyond, a dark and grey sheet of cashmere rippling under the twilight. The grass on the hill flowed down until it hit the houses below. A breeze combed it as it passed. Sly had loved this hill since Story had found it on one of her expeditions, and stood very studiously staring at the view below with his blue-green eyes glazed over. Sprint nodded and took it all in, feeling restful and tranquil.

Story took a few steps back to the ledge that hung over the slope. “Still!” she shrieked shrilly.

“Coming” was the voice that replied, and Still lumbered up.

“Where’s the ball?” snarled Story incredulously.

S till shrugged and walked away to join the others. Story threw up her arms and scowled.

“Every day, I swear. Every day I gotta go and get that dang ball. Lazy old Still. God. Come on, Sly. Let’s go,” Story snapped.

She and Sly went back to the tree and they used the rope, climbed up the platform, and got the ball. Usually it took the two of them, because the old rope was slippery. The platform was half rotten already, and Story had found it already there, like she found everything on this hill. On it, they had placed a ball, light and bouncy, so that it could function as a dodgeball, soccer ball, basketball, volleyball, and a great many other kinds of balls all at once. Along with the ball, a few things that were beloved by them were all kept there, as well as a few small flashlights, which they had added small elastic bands to so that they could tie them to their wrists and fingers on particularly dark nights.

When Story and Sly returned with the ball, the others tore away from the view and made an act of “locking in”.

“I despise touching that rope,” Story announced, wiping her hands on her shirt with a look of disgust.

“Breaking news,” said Sly sarcastically.

He looked around and gave the ball to Sprint to start the game. It was an entirely pointless game, but they all loved it dearly. New rules were made up and old ones broken every day. It never ended, but always picked up where it stopped yesterday. They had all been hurt playing the game at one point or another, but none of them cared.

Still never participated, but sat and watched them. Seth, who was an avid player, was usually the one who took charge of the game, and today as he started it, the ball bounced back and forth between being a thing to be stolen, a thing to score with, a weapon, or a combination of the three. New rules would be shouted out every few seconds as they chased each other down the hill, past the fence, and down the street, laughing and screeching and shining with sweat. Eventually Sorrow, Seth’s friend, joined them, and brought more chaos by tapping Sprint on the shoulder and saying, “Tag, you’re it!”

A tumultuous variant of tag began. Still had been forced to run along, and they must have gone a long way from where they started by now. Sprint ran and ran, his breath steady and heaving, and Seth tossed the ball to Story, who neatly caught it and dodged away from the clutches of Sorrow, who was grabbing at her collar in an attempt to pull her and the ball over, but soon enough Sly caught up, tagging Story.

“Whoever’s tagged has to hop on one leg for five minutes!” Sly declared, and Story reluctantly complied.

Sprint ran by, afraid to miss out; “Whoever’s hopping has to give me the ball!” And with that he snatched the ball, Sly stubbornly chasing after him.

Seth swooped in like a hawk and preyed upon the ball. Sly and Sprint tackled him, but suddenly stopped. A kid from the other side of the wall stood towering over all but Seth, who was eye-level with him. His face had that evil kind of villain laugh plastered all over it, seeing his rivals all steamed in sweat. One by one, more and more boys appeared behind him, their faces eerie and illuminated by the light. Still sulkily stepped back, but Sly marched forward, like the hero in charge, with an entourage to back him up.

“What do you want here?” he spat. “You know this is our territory.”

“Your territory?” laughed the boy. “You painted our territory. Ain’t no way we’re gonna let that slide.”

“We?” Sly echoed. “No, we didn’t paint your wall. That was Skip.”

“‘King Skip’ it may be,” growled the boy mockingly, “But your names were on it as well. Don’t lie, ‘Lord Sly’. ‘Sir Seth’ and ‘Miss Story’ there was, ‘Knight Sprint’ and ‘Mr. Still’ as well.”

“He forgot ‘Lady Sorrow’,” mumbled Sorrow sadly to herself, shaking her head.

“We’ll take you down anytime,” continued the boy, and his friends flashed their teeth at them menacingly.

Sly grinned, and Sprint knew right away what was coming next. Sly grabbed Seth by the hood and used him to block a coming punch. Immediately, chaos broke out as Seth threw himself at the boy, yelling in his terrifyingly deep voice. Sly shoved and kicked like there was no tomorrow. Everywhere he went his enemies hit the ground with a thud. Sprint watched as Still backed away, slinking into the background, and he turned just as a boy pushed him. He stumbled and lamely gave him a little push. Story appeared behind the boy, brandishing a stick like a knight unsheathing a gleaming sword, and she whacked him until he cried mercy. Sprint closed his eyes, squeezing them and listening to the sound of the yells and thuds and shouts. He could feel the warmth of his blood heavy in his fingertips, pulsing in his ears and head. The night was getting late, awfully late, and it was ever so cold out… perhaps if he opened his eyes now and looked hard enough he might be able to see his breath. No, not perhaps. Definitely.

When he heard thundering footfalls blundering away, Sprint opened his eyes.

Sorrow flipped the finger at the kids from the other side. “That’s right! Run away, suckers!” she screamed in triumph, and started to smooth down her bushy golden locks as if nothing had happened.

The group took a moment, but then came together under a lamp, Sly’s knee torn open and bleeding, his elbow skinned, but his eyes grinning. Seth limped, his left leg heaving a twisted ankle. The cut on Story’s hand had been splintered back open, her legs jewelled with glimmering rubies of blood, and they all trudged back to the wall in silence, bloody and weary. Too sore to climb up and sit on it, they slumped at the foot of the old, peeling wall. Sly conjured a bag of chips from the basket of his bike and began crunching, sharing it with his friends. Seth tied and untied the strings of his hoodie. Sprint sat and observed and ate Sly’s chips beside Still, who was sitting and observing as well. A moth flitted by, and many more drew circles, mesmerised by the blinking light of the streetlamps, waltzing to the orchestra of the little night critters. The group sat with their breath full of static, feeling the cold cut into their raw skin, the cool wall numbing their hurting backs, the damp pavement nursing their bruised legs. Sorrow put her head on Story’s shoulder, getting comfortable.

“Look, we’re matching,” Sorrow murmured, running a finger along a deep red river slicing through the left side of Story’s face, then smearing the blood over her own gash on the right side of her face.

Story softly scolded her, “Don’t do that, you’ll get infected or something.”

Their breath certainly did come in clouds now. The sky was perfectly clear and the moon was barely there. The stars were plentiful and bright, as if the sky was a bit of bread with dark, silky butter spread thinly over it, and the stars peeped out of the spots that the butter had failed to cover. A cat came ambling past, judging them with two beady eyes, then scampered away silently. They sat for so long, the only sound being the crunch of the chips and the crinkle of the bag that held them, the soft hum of the streetlamps and the rustling of the night, so long that the stars eventually ceased being holes and began to be pearls on purple velvet. Sprint rubbed his eyes, knowing there would be dark circles there the next day and Still would call him a zombie.

At last, Seth broke the silence with the question that had haunted them all night.

“When did you say you were moving away, Still?”

Still answered, his voice empty and lost. “In two weeks.”

Seth turned to Sorrow. “And you, when do you leave?”

“Next week, Sorrow, replied. “By the time I’m back, you’ll all be gone.”

She had said it, and now it was consciously on their minds. Their victory would be short-lived. Seth was to grow up surrounded by a future far, far away. Story was to be a young woman studying abroad in Spain. Sly had gotten a scholarship to that fancy school he had always dreamed of. They left in a month, a week, a few days, and Sprint…

“Tomorrow,” said Sprint, his voice breaking and stumbling and struggling to get up as he spoke into the shuddering night. “Tomorrow I’ll begin to think of Sly and his laughter, Story and her words, Seth and his company, Skip and his paint, Still and his silence, Sorrow and her kindness. Tomorrow…”

But he stopped. There was already a glow in the east. Slowly, reluctantly, they stood up, still scarred but strong and shivering against the last thread of the night. The dawn was winking at them, promising the future, and Sprint knew that they were no longer little boys. The day before had already come and gone.

The Painter's Daughter

I huddled in my arms and kicked at the blemishes in the sidewalk, head bowed, my breath clouding in a mist, one moment there and the next moment gone. Autumn had already passed like a lone sailboat on the morning harbor. My boots softly thumped against the cement, snowless but frosty, and walked along, shouldering a load on my back I knew wasn’t there.

I crossed the road without looking left or right or even touching a crosswalk, though I was careful. Nobody drove by but a man on a cobalt bicycle with a bundle of bare branches in the basket. I stood in front of the small brick shop, slowly approaching the polished glass window. I could feel my hands and face pressed against the glass. I was a little boy growing up. I could almost see the walls hung up with acrylic and oil paints framed in bronze. And there she was, in the center of the room, pushed to the left only a little, sitting at a wooden desk, with a pencil in her hand and a paper under her eyes, her hair tied and crowned in cloth.

I watched her as the afternoon turned away. A few people walked by, and another bicycle passed, but the girl drew on and I watched. Her father would come in every fifteen minutes and point to something on the page, maybe drawing an invisible line with his finger, and telling his daughter things I could not hear. The girl always nodded and her father would disappear, his fingernails edged with colors. They never turned around, and they never saw me, but I went home before night fell and Mother came down the street yelling for me.

I visited her again sometime after that. She still looked the same, brown hair and linen cloth, neat chambray dress, and she was drawing in a sketchbook. I just kept right on watching her, but eventually she grew tired of her drawing and turned towards the window where I was as the man with the blue bicycle went by with a basket full of tulips. My heart gave a jolt and I hastily shoved my hands to my stomach before I realized my sweater had no pockets. I snapped my head towards a painting of a hummingbird behind her. It was beating with its wings a blur of peacock blue, its eyes glassy and beetle-like. The girl smiled and stood up, sensing my presence, brushing her dress down and opening the door, letting the sunlight burst into the shop, the sketchbook clamped under her arm. She held it open for me and I hesitantly walked in.

She stood perfectly still, just looking at me while I awkwardly traced the swirls in the rug with my eyes. Tired of silence, I tried to say something.

“I’m Oliver,” I muttered.

“Grace,” she replied quietly. Her fingers tapped the binding of the sketchbook.

“Cool.” I opened my mouth for a second, then ducked my head and strode to the door, opening it and making a run down the street, all in one smooth motion. I ran though my breath collided inside my lungs like a misshapen needle.

I didn’t stop until I slammed into my front door. Mother yanked it open and jumped as I stumbled and grabbed the doorframe to steady myself.

“Oh, Oliver,” sighed Mother. “I was getting worried. I was just going to go look for you.”

I didn’t say anything. I flung my shoes off before going into my room.

The next time I saw Grace, her hair was longer and braided, and the man with the blue bicycle had sunflowers in his basket. She wore an apron and a dress of linen, and the sun wrapped me in a buttery, mellow aura when I looked inside the shop. A broom leaned against a corner and Grace was organizing brushes into cups and boxes. Her fingers would dance across the smooth handle and run through the hairs before she placed it in a container. I shyly opened the door just a few centimeters and poked my head in.

“How’re you doing?” I said gently.

“Good,” Grace told me, her voice barely above a soft breath. She didn’t look up.

I closed the door and left her alone. Time had barely passed when the sun went away and the cold had returned again, along with a chilling breeze skipping around the air. The bicycle man had a single pumpkin in his basket and he rode by with his knuckles white and dry from the weather, gripping the handlebars. When I walked by the shop, Grace was more tall, slim, and beautiful than ever, and she sat with her back turned to the window, playing on an old, rustic piano. I stopped and watched her. She played the same piece over and over again, pausing when she messed up or when she brushed a strand of hair away from her face. Her long, slender fingers elegantly skimmed across the keys like they were brushing light ripples across water, and she swayed sometimes as her hands danced on the piano. When she shifted her position on the bench, she seemed to know I was looking through the window.

I waved. “I can play guitar,” I hollered through the window hopefully.

Grace just smiled and went back to the piano.

I looked away and soon enough clouds plastered the sky and the bicycle basket was filled with sticks again. My hands were frozen stiff but I was wrapped in a thick coat. My cheeks were blistered by the wind and my only thought while I walked home from school was the warmth of home and a fire. There wasn’t a single bird in sight, not even a sparrow. I was duly noting to myself to get mittens when I thought I heard a voice behind me and turned around.

“Oliver,” Grace was calling, her voice full of whispers just like always.

I looked at her but she didn’t meet my eyes. She was in a sweater, a skirt and tights, her cheeks rosy. The cloth that once wrapped her hair was gone.

“Father’s moving us to France,” she told me quietly. “He wants me to be a painter, like him.”

“Oh,” I murmured.

There was a loud silence, in which I could hear Grace’s fingers tapping.

“I won’t see you again, will I?” I thought out loud.

“No,” answered Grace. “I suppose not.”

All of a sudden she looked up and met my eyes for the first time. She was trembling. It struck me that I had never really seen her eyes before. They were wonderful, the widest, bluest ones I had ever seen, and my cold breath caught in my throat. But then I saw the clouds, blurring over and I knew Grace had never seen me before. She had never seen her own drawings or the way she looked when she played piano before. I wanted to say something, but I couldn’t. I had my hands in my pockets, trying to etch into my mind every single detail of how her eyes looked so I wouldn’t forget. She seemed to be staring into my soul. Grace finally broke the silence.

“Nice to meet you, Oliver,” she said at last.

She turned around and disappeared. I didn’t know what to do, or where to go, even though the wind began to pick up even more and I shivered.

I opened my eyes. The brick shop was empty except for the hummingbird painting on the wall.

Danse Macabre

Mr. Kyle Darcy’s neighbors almost never appreciated that he played the organ. Day after day he practiced as if possessed by some unfathomable demon rattling through his bones. The old-fashioned instrument had such an irritatingly wailing sound, and nobody fancied being woken from their afternoon rest by a sound reminiscent of phantoms and horror films. But of course, no such thing was the explanation behind the music. It was simply the start of Mr. Darcy’s daily three-hour organ practice.

Mr. Darcy, in fact, did know all about what his neighbors said about him behind his back. And he knew what the orchestra said about him behind his back as well. His skills were reserved for Mozart, and Mozart only. He was simply out-of-fashion, not good enough, and very much a social outcast, even in his circle of social outcasts.

Mr. Darcy’s real problem was that he was stubborn, although he preferred the term “determined”, and he was proud. He wouldn’t conform to being a pianist if his life depended on it. He went home late after rehearsal one October night and slammed the door on his street with a sound like a dropped book in a dead silent room. The neighbours whispered amongst themselves that he had just had another nasty quarrel with the pianist.

Mr. Darcy sat down on the organ bench and slammed his head down against the center keyboard, and the seconds rang out cursedly in the organ’s foreboding voice. His shoes against the foot piano, he laid there, barely moving, for nearly half an hour. Born too late to be in the limelight, born too early to start anew, but born in just enough time to be nothing at all. He sat straight up, slowly after thirty minutes had passed as if his scheduled sulking time had come to an end. Mr. Darcy looked straight ahead of him, where a booklet of sheet music lay open on the organ stand. He hadn’t remembered forgetting to put his music away. Now that he thought about it, he hadn’t remembered owning this music at all. There was no title and no composer. The heading was completely empty. He looked at the bottom. No signature, no copyright. The music itself was handwritten on a buttery sheet of old paper, the notes thin and spidery with small note-heads and long stems. The flags were misshapen, and the treble clefs were written entirely wrong.

Regardless, Mr. Darcy’s curiosity got the best of him. He rested both his hands on the keyboard. Drowsily, tentatively, the organ whispered the first measure. It was eerie, and it gave Mr. Darcy goosebumps along his spine. He suddenly abhorred how it crawled and crept in the air when he played it so softly, and put a little more impact into his fingers and feet. What was that feeling on the back of his neck? It was barely there, and it was gone in a moment. But suddenly it slid to his shoulders. Yes, it was an arm, a damp one, and it smelled of salt, or did it? There was no arm at all. Yes, it was very much there now. All of a sudden, Mr. Darcy couldn’t tear his hands away from the keyboard. He played and he played, and he thrust his soul into it, closing his eyes, although he was sight-reading and had not memorized the piece at all. To his surprise, his fingers kept going without him. The salty smell grew stronger as a cool hand rested itself against his cheek and snapped his head to the side. He opened his eyes.

A woman in a smart black suit stood behind Mr. Darcy. Her eyes were devoid of colour and life, but she had sharp, defined features and triangular teeth that smiled back at him. Upon further inspection, Mr. Darcy saw that she had folds along her neck shaped like crescents, not unlike gills at all. But she saw him staring and hid her neck in her collar. Giving him another charming smile, she revealed to him a sable-handled baton, perhaps a foot in length. She walked away, and Mr. Darcy stopped playing and watched her.

Mr. Darcy looked back at the music sheet and identified the measure he had stopped at. He was surprised to find that the paper seemed whiter, the heads plumper, the stems straighter, the flags fuller. The treble clef had fixed itself and stared back at him like a small child proud of his own ability to dress himself. With restored confidence he leapt back into the music. Not two measures in, he thought he heard a sound behind him. He paused and looked behind. There was nothing there but the woman from before. She held her baton poised and ready in the air, and she gave him another charming smile.

“Do play,” she said softly, her voice musical and soothing.

“Are you sure you’d like me to?” replied Mr. Darcy.

“Of course.”

So Mr. Darcy started up again, but so did the sound. He played louder and louder, and so did the sound. What was it? Violins, of course! Many of them, perhaps one dozen - no, two dozen! Were those horns? Yes, indeed, and flutes and cellos and bells - it was an orchestra! And so he was the soloist - and a grand one he was! Was the orchestra there to play beside him? He risked a glance. It seemed they were.

Mr. Darcy played with a deranged sort of jubilation; what infatuation he had for she who had saved him from his isolation! What emptiness he had seen in the long hours of the night, wasting away with nothing to play, nothing to do. What boredom had unwound his mind like thread from a spool, and now it was being rewound, or so he thought, rewound so rapidly it made his head spin. He was saved! He was saved! He tossed his head and let out a rattling, screaming laugh, his fingers frisking about on the cold, cold keys. His heart gripped the bars of his ribcage, shaking them, pulling them, clanking them.

And so it went on for hours, or perhaps days, on end. He could not stop. He would not. At some point a page-turner had appeared beside him. He had never been important enough for a page-turner. But now he was, and here and there the little boy would turn the page to reveal two new ones. The music never seemed to end. A madness possessed Mr. Darcy, and he played on and on and never knew exhaustion.

The orchestra was growing louder every minute. Yes, he was sure of it, though it just barely crescendoed. He did not mind. He only played louder. The grandeur and the power in his very hands brought a furious exultation to him. But then it came to the inevitable point where the music could not fit in his ears. He cursed the violins with their sharp, bony screeching, he damned the trumpets for their blaring punches. The xylophone must stop! It sounded unbearably like the dissonant clangs of iron sticks upon iron floors. The music was shattering his ears. He could no longer hear his own playing. His stomach turned over like a great wave, though he had not eaten for days on end. His mind was stuffed with a heavy, overflowing fog. He ripped his eyes from the music, but his hands and feet went on. He begged, he pleaded for them to stop, and painfully, he tore them away from the organ.

There was the sound of the baton slapping against the music stand. The orchestra came to an abrupt stop. Dead silence. Silence that tormented Mr. Darcy, that mocked him for his efforts. It was then that his exhaustion was known to him. It came upon him like a bucket of mud, weighing him down upon the bench, binding his limbs and numbing them, pulling his eyelids down like heavy, stuck shutters upon an old window.

The harpsichordist laughed. The very same harpsichordist who had sounded like the breaking of dry bones just moments before. And soon the whole orchestra joined in a chorus of hollow, sharp laughter. Mr. Darcy knew that laugh. It was his own.

He broke his head from its rest and looked at the page-turner. The boy grinned a grin not unlike that of a hyena. Then the page-turner slowly, tauntingly slowly, lifted his hands for Mr. Darcy to see. They were covered in vermillion paper-cuts. He then pointed towards the orchestra. Mr. Darcy turned to see.

The concertmaster raised its thin fingers. Blood, thick and crimson, seeped from a cut on each finger. A flautist stood up and the skin on its neck was gone, exposing a raw, stinging rash in its throat. A trombonist licked its cracked, bleeding lips. A bassist popped a fat, yellow blister on its skin and the pus oozed out, covering its hands stickily. All were eyeless.

The conductor turned back to Mr. Darcy. Her voice was still as velvety as a summer evening.

“Again from measure 25,013,879,” she coaxed. “Mr. Darcy, please try harder. You missed a chord.”

A single tear dropped from Mr. Darcy’s eye. He then looked at his own hands, and placed them back on the organ despite every cut, scrape, rash, bruise, and blister that was there.

The Mannequin on 17th

On the corner of 17th Avenue and 13th Street is a little shop with dark olive green walls. The drab paint had been peeled off in many places to reveal dusty white, which was soon painted over by orange and pink graffiti. The side facing 13th Street had nothing, besides chipping brown and scribbled orange, and a rotting door that was always closed. Its knob was a dull, mustard yellow that claimed it was once golden.

The side facing 17th Avenue had four small circular holes in a rectangle, as if a sign had been hung there only to be ripped off. Below the holes was a large window, ridiculously new and polished, contrasting against the exhaustiveness of the surroundings. Still, inside the window was a singular feminine mannequin, dressed up in lime green.

And still other days she was dressed up in buttercup yellow, bubblegum pink, atomic orange, rosy red, sky blue. For some, she was an artist, wearing the different hues of the world. For others, she was a princess, who stood more brilliant and beautiful than anyone and anything around her. For others still, she was a fashion model, proud of the vibrant clothes she wore.

But for few, she was simply, plainly, a mannequin.

Perhaps for those a little more poetic, she was a lonely mannequin. 13th Street was deserted, with little more than a few crumbled houses dotting the road. 17th Avenue led to nowhere, and it was rarely used except by the garbage truck every morning. The mannequin stood alone in the shop, with only the bright clothes and the imaginative shopkeeper to keep her company.

Some people say a mannequin’s job is easy. Stay in the window where others can see, wear clothes, and look stylish. It was simple.

The mannequin was told sometimes that it wasn’t all about her. Although she was the only one in the window, and to think about it, the only one on 17th Avenue and 13th Street, there were others in the world. There were others who had it harder than her, and that she really only cared about herself and that wasn’t okay.

The mannequin only smiled her dripping red painted-on smile. Her fading brown eyes stared at the dying old tree across 17th.

Perhaps she was asking herself, how can I only care about myself when I am lonely, and I would give anything for someone to be here with me?

But then again, perhaps she was selfish to wish herself a companion. It was better for anyone to be anywhere but here, on the window of the shop on the corner of 13th and 17th.

The mannequin was very old. She could not remember how many days she had spent in that window, and even when the glass was replaced countless times, the mannequin herself was never replaced. What she did remember was that in the long, long ago, the unthinkable was true: 13th Street was a busy, busy place.

It was crammed with people of all ages and cars of all types, businesses of all uses and all the things you could think of.

The mannequin was still lonely. Even then she was.

Some people said she loved the way she looked, from her hair to her eyes to her mouth to her clothes. That the fake plastic-ness of the mousy mess on her head was created just for her. That the fading brown eyes were a doorway to her soul. That the full red lips were makeup she had chosen herself. That the unbearably bright colors of her dress was the way she wanted it to be.

The mannequin, again, only smiled her dripping red painted-on smile. The old tree laughed at her.

Perhaps she had been suffocating under the color she wore that day. Be it deep mulberry, aqua green, pale tangerine, the mannequin was choking under her pale white skin.

The mannequin stood there for years, one hand on one hip, the other mid-hair flip. Until the one fateful day. She was wearing an itchy lavender, when the hand in her hair dropped to the ground with a quiet yet deafening thud. The index finger broke off.

The shopkeeper only smiled and shook her head, picking up the hand and twisting it back into place.

The mannequin was smiling forever.

Perhaps she was just sick of playing the role forced into her. Sick of being a mannequin, because all mannequins must be the way she was forced to be. Some people are scared of mannequins, but when this one looked at herself she knew why. But she could do nothing about it, and she knew the millions of mannequins like her couldn’t either.

They were forever prisoners of the immortal life they were born into, restless, mindless, and soulless.

And so this is the way of the mannequin on 17th Avenue.